


liberation

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boys in Skirts, Crossdressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Insecurity, M/M, Tim Stoker says Fuck (social conventions)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Probably, Timshouldhave called before barging into Jon's flat, but if someone has to tell Jon it's okay to wear what's comfortable to him, he's glad it's going to be him.— or Jonathan Sims wears a skirt.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 26
Kudos: 324





	liberation

It wasn’t entirely unheard of for Jon to forget his workload _at_ work, even though they _technically_ weren’t supposed to take the files and transcripts home with them, anyway, but Tim wasn’t the archives police and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been sneaking things from the Institute’s library since the first week he’d worked there. So they all did it, even Jon. _Especially_ Jon, complaining he’d never be caught up if he didn’t, so on, so forth, etcetera etcetera. _Usually,_ though, if Jon forgot his stuff, well, _RIP._ But tonight he was in luck, just lucky enough that Tim had noticed the stack of papers for the statement they’d been pinging back and forth on, and now, _here he was._ Files tucked under his arm, grinning as he knocked on the door of Jon’s flat. Not that he’d been looking for a reason to hang out with Jon tonight, but dragging him away from the work was always a plus. Even though he was… _bringing_ him work… oh, whatever. They’d have pizza and complain about cases while relaxing. Something they didn’t do (much) at work. 

“Oh, Joooon.”

Jon didn’t answer immediately, and, _okay,_ technically Tim knew that he should have called. Given him a little bit of a warning. But it also wasn’t like Jon really had a _social_ life or anything (sorry, Jon, but it was true) so the only reason he wouldn’t be answering would be if he was in the shower or something. 

Tim drummed his fingers against the door. “Boss. C’mon, brought the case files you forgot. Like a good boyfriend. The best boyfriend.” 

Oh, there, something from the other side of the door. Tim doubled down and kept talking. “Legitimately the best subordinate researcher boyfriend that’s come to help you hunt ghosts and eat pizza.”

“Tim,” Jon complained, locks fumbling from the other side. “Stop.”

“Stop what? Being a thoughtful lovely partner?”

“Stop loudly proclaiming to my whole building that your boss is _dating_ you,” Jon complained, and yanked the door open. “Honestly, are you _trying_ to–” 

Okay, so maybe he didn’t go to Jon’s flat very often and he probably, definitely should have called, but whatever he expected when Jon opened the door (he expected a cross look, with the underlying gentleness that came with out-of-the-Institute Jon, and yeah, that was still there) but he didn’t expect Jon, scowling, glasses pushed up to the top of his head, wearing a _skirt;_ a floor-length pleated brown skirt, and okay, _yeah,_ Tim didn’t know what he’d expected here, but it wasn’t _that,_ and he was definitely _staring_ before he could stop himself–

– and Jon was blinking at him, owlish and confused, fumbling for his glasses as he looked to see what _Tim_ was looking at; and there was the recognition, the cold rush of– of– fear, Christ it was fear, and shock and horror, and then Jon was taking a step back, muttering something under his breath that was at least partially a curse. 

“Jon–” Tim started, snapping his hand out to stop him. The file fell from under his arm, scattering their case work in a whirlwind of paper, and Jon shut the door in his face. 

_Damn._

“Jon.” He tried the handle, but the resistance from the other side of the door meant Jon was _holding_ it shut. “Jon, open the door.”

“Just leave the files outside.”

“No. Jon. Come on. Let me in.” 

“No." 

_“Jon.”_ He groaned, thumping his hand against the door. “C’mon, whatever you think about this is a big deal, _isn’t._ I’m sorry I was staring. It wasn’t _bad_ staring.” 

“It wasn’t _admiration,”_ Jon hissed back, and then sighed through the door. “Please–”

“You surprised me,” he said, trying to sound as _genuine_ as possible. And he _was_ being honest. It was definitely _not_ what he’d expected, but _super_ not a big deal. “Do you really think I’m _judging_ you here? Me. I’m _not.”_

The door stayed firmly shut and… fucking Christ, this was _not_ how he wanted to learn Jon’s secrets. He wanted to know them, sure, of _course_ he did. He wanted to know every last part of Jon that Jon had to offer. But Jon hadn’t… exactly offered, here. The complete goddamn opposite. Tim had just, however unwittingly, trampled in on one of Jon’s private moments and… yeah. 

And how did you convince your uptight, stickler for the rules boyfriend-boss that wearing a skirt was _okay_ when he wouldn’t even open the door?

Okay. Okay. Well, he wasn’t going to try and convince him from the hall for the rest of the building to hear. “Fine. Look, Jon. I’m _sorry,_ okay. I didn’t mean to… I mean, obviously, I definitely didn’t come with the intention of ruining your night. So I’m sorry.” He stooped to start collecting the scattering of paper at his feet. “But I’m not leaving just like that. I still have work, and I still _definitely_ want to order pizza. So, I’m going to– ow, fuck, those are my keys–” He huffed, settling back against the wall, re-organizing the files in his lap. “I’m going to sit here, ‘til you open the door. However long it takes. Just maybe not too long. I’ll probably have to pee at some point.”

And, well, he had planned to help Jon on this case tonight, anyway, so he might as well sit here and read through the newest particulars Sasha had added after her latest read-through. Not much new, really, but names and dates that Jon would absolutely be interested in, and an additional police report regarding the fire at the mortuary appeared to have been marked as suspicious, according to Section 31, and the knowledge was only just coming to light now. Heh, light. He’d save that pun for later.

The doorknob turned, and Tim looked up just as Jon cracked the door enough to look out and then down at him.

“Hey, boss!” he greeted, bright and cheerful and like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. “Fancy meeting _you_ here.”

Jon rolled his eyes, and pushed the door open the rest of the way. And Tim noticed immediately that he wasn’t wearing that skirt, but had changed and was back in an old, familiar pair of joggers, bare feet and shirt rumpled from what had probably been a hasty swap of clothes. “You probably don’t even have to pee.”

“I said _later,_ Jon. I don’t have a tiny bladder like you.” He stuck his tongue out, and took Jon’s hand when he offered it.

“Yes, well.” He glanced at the papers Tim was tucking away again. “Is that the Arthurs file?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing much. Sasha did dig up a Sectioned report, though.”

_“What?”_

Tim grinned, holding out the file. “Don’t get _too_ excited, I don’t think it’s case-breaking.”

“Even still.”

He’d have to think about how to broach this– because there was no way they _weren’t_ going to broach this. Jon might be content to pretend it hadn’t happened, but it had, plain and simple, and Tim couldn’t just let something that had bothered him so much to look like _that_ fly under the radar. All of their cases, and Jon had looked right scared over Tim finding him wearing a skirt. 

It hurt, a little, yeah. No, Jon didn’t owe him his secrets, of course not, but looking so genuinely _freaked?_ In front of his boyfriend– very _open-minded_ boyfriend, if he said so himself? It was just… hm. _Yeah._

They didn’t have to _talk_ talk about it, but Tim had to bring it up, anyway.

He let Jon get through most of the new research, and half of the pizza, before he did, though. “Jon.”

“Mmm?”

It was going to shatter Jon’s laser-focus work intensity. But maybe that was a good thing. Tim traced his fingers up along Jon’s spine, smoothing up to fix the hair sticking up at his glasses. “Why’d you change?”

And there it went, that single-minded interest. Jon tensed; Tim slid his hand down to curve around his jaw.

Jon turned his head. “I’d rather if we–”

“No,” he interrupted. “We don’t have to get into it, if you don’t want. That’s fine. I just... I just wanted to know why you changed. That’s all.”

“You– you _know_ why,” Jon muttered. And when Tim didn’t say anything– because that _wasn’t_ what he was asking, and they both knew it– he glanced up and blanched that Tim was watching him and blustered on. “It’s– just– not for polite company.”

“Cheers you think I’m polite.”

“Tim.”

_“Jon.”_

“Social standards–”

“Fuck ‘em,” Tim interrupted. “No, really,” he continued, when Jon rolled his eyes. “Here’s something no one seems to realize: clothes? They’re _fabric._ Scraps of fabric. Can you believe fabric is _actually_ genderless?”

Jon heaved a sigh, slumping a little like he’d been holding his breath. Tim wondered how long he’d been waiting to exhale that. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe not. But it should. _Really,_ Jon,” he stressed. “I can’t make the rest of the world get their heads out of their ignorant arses, but I’m, at least, _not_ part of that group of narrow-minded people.”

“I… yes, I know. I’m… it’s just habit, I suppose. And I wasn’t _expecting–”_

“I should have called–”

“You should have,” Jon agreed.

“– but it doesn’t _really_ change the fact. You could have–”

“I _couldn’t_ have,” Jon interrupted. “I–I– if I hadn’t changed, I– we wouldn’t be sitting here like this. I wouldn’t be– it would be the only thing I could think about. Which doesn’t _exactly_ help move along our casework.”

Okay, fair. That much was absolutely true; even if Tim _hadn’t_ visibly reacted, Jon would have still been so goddamn twitchy they wouldn’t have been able to get anything else done. “What about when we’re _not_ doing casework, then?”

“I’m– not sure–”

“Wait, don’t answer that. That sounds pressure-y. Let me try something else: guessing this is something semi-common for you, or something you’d like to be somewhat common, barring social convention hammered into your head–” he pretended Jon didn’t shrink at _that_ accusation as well– _“why_ d’you?”

“What?”

“Why. Fashion?” he prompted, although that concept never really seemed to rank highly on Jon’s list of priorities. Put together as he was, Tim didn’t _exactly_ think aesthetics was the driving choice, but, a starting point.

“Not… not particularly?” Jon muttered. “No. It’s… that’s just from a thrift shop.”

“Alright.”

“It’s… just…” Jon gestured vaguely, struggling so genuinely with the _words_ that it both made Tim angry and just… _sad._ Christ, but so much stigma around the things you ‘should’ do and the ones that you ‘shouldn’t.’ He’d been like that, once, younger and _terrified._ And he’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to feel like that again because of anyone else. He _really_ didn’t want Jon to, either.

“Comfortable?” he prompted softly, taking pity, and Jon nearly looked weak with relief.

“Yes.” He nodded. “That. Um, just– just sometimes. After work, when it’s… when the week has been trying. It’s… sort of…”

“Liberating?”

“I was going to say freeing, but… yes.” Jon sighed, and straightened up. “I didn’t intend– I don’t know, to cause problems–”

“Not a problem to me,” Tim said quickly. “I don’t mind.”

“How can you _say_ that? You were– staring.”

“You _surprised_ me,” he stressed, again, because he _had._ But he stood by what he said: it hadn’t been _bad_ staring. He’d stare if Jon opened the door naked but he wouldn’t be asking him to put clothes back on anytime soon. Somehow, Tim didn’t think Jon would appreciate _that_ metaphor. “Look, if you made my favorite meal, I’d stare.”

“I don’t _know_ your favorite meal.”

“Shepherd’s Pie or Sunday roast. Just for reference.”

Jon almost seemed to smile at that. _Good._ They were getting somewhere. Maybe they were getting somewhere. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, voice flat– purposefully so.

“Good. Do that. I’m glad.” He wasn’t talking about just the meal, now. He had a feeling Jon got that, thank God. He wasn’t sure how to be any more determined but delicate enough that Jon wouldn’t upset himself further. He wanted him to understand, or have a grasp at it, but he didn’t want him upset.

“You looked nice, though,” he continued, and Jon had been looking vaguely uncomfortable as went with the territory, Tim guessed, but now he was starting to look a little pink.

“Tim.”

“I’m serious. You looked comfy. It was lovely, you need to relax more.”

“I…” Jon ducked his head, gathering their paperwork. “Maybe,” he said, soft, like it was going to shatter their safety, or sense of security. Even still, he was saying it, and that was a _good_ step. 

“Next time?” Tim prompted.

“I’m… not sure…”

 _“Think_ about it for next time?”

“I… yes, I suppose I– I can do that,” Jon said. “Yes.”

“Good!” He could play it chill, because that was what Jon needed him to do right now. But honestly? Tim was _supremely_ pleased. It wasn’t a promise; nowhere near it, actually, but that was actually good. Jon had agreed to _think_ about it, which was _another_ step. Two steps together, and still hesitation beyond that. That was so good in terms of healthy progress. “You deserve to be comfy at home. Wear whatever you like.”

“I… thank you,” Jon murmured. It’d be cute to see him being so shy if it was different circumstances, but, well… kind of even now, yeah.

“No prob. God knows I am. I get back home, all of this,” he plucked at his work shirt, and half untied tie, “comes straight off. No clothes. I’m just about my flat starkers.”

“Tim.”

“I’m serious. Sometimes I forget to close my curtains.”

 _“Tim,”_ Jon repeated. “God, stop, please.”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop. We work all day, no holds barred come night.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jon said, like he was at all serious. Tim was a little jealous how utterly _dry_ he could be sometimes. It seemed so useful. He just didn’t possess the ability of keeping a lid on it like that.

“Reheat the pizza and call it even?” he joked, nudging Jon’s shoulder.

“Er, yes, thank you. Just a piece.”

“I’ll heat two for you, you need to eat more.”

“You… fine,” Jon said, still long-suffering like he really _minded,_ like he wasn’t going to eat the pizza if Tim warmed it back up for him. “You don’t have to worry about me quite so much, you know.”

“I’ll believe that when I see reason to,” Tim replied. Making Jon believe he deserved to take care of himself shouldn’t be such a trial, but here they were. And maybe he shouldn’t _have_ to worry about him, either, but… here he was. And he wanted to. He really… he really _enjoyed_ having someone to worry about. He would _not_ admit that.

He dropped a kiss to Jon’s hair and pushed himself up. “Back in a flash,” he promised, and grinned to himself as Jon grumbled on behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Jon, who's so comfortable he doesn't think about opening the door! Jon, whose stomach drops to his feet when he realizes! Jon, who takes a bit to absorb Tim's lecture, but does! Jon, who slowly gets more and more comfortable, and wears skirts at his place AND Tim's!
> 
> Tim, who watches this slow progression of Jon being more secure in himself and thinking it's the sexiest thing ever, and being unable to fall anymore in love with him because he's already in so deep to begin with


End file.
